—Sydney Parnell, ENGL 2008, Psychology of Combat.
When Clyde and I arrived at the observation room, the ten-by-ten space was packed with detectives and federal agents and reeked of coffee and sweat. The noise level was at a volume just above that of a squadron of F-16s at takeoff. Mac had found a spot to the left of the door, pressed against the wall. I wedged myself in beside her, while Clyde, miserable with the crowd, crawled into the gap between my feet and the baseboard.
A wall-mounted screen at the front of the room provided a direct view into the interview room, where a camera was already recording and transmitting. All of us could see Veronica Stern sitting alone at a metal table in a chamber consisting of peeling plaster, two metal-and-vinyl chairs, and a single window reinforced with black wire.
She didn’t much resemble the Veronica Stern from earlier that day. Clearly, finding a child’s bloody clothing in your car—assuming you didn’t put it there—was enough to shock anyone. But Veronica didn’t look so much shocked as simply . . . gone. As if the real Veronica Stern was off somewhere trying to strike a deal with the devil. Her lovely face was a static mask, her flat gaze fixed on an invisible spot six inches above the table. The fingers of her right hand clutched her necklace as if it were a lifeline.
She barely seemed to blink.
At the sound of the door opening, she moved like someone coming out of a dream. She released the necklace—a silver heart with a diamond-and-ruby center—straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Her look was now one I recognized—the coldly competent litigation lawyer.
Cohen and Bandoni entered. Bandoni slapped a file folder onto the table and took a position behind Stern, arms folded and chin tucked. His gaze drilled into the back of her head. Cohen seated himself across from Stern. He opened his notebook and gave her a reassuring nod.
“I’m Detective Cohen. Behind you is Detective Bandoni.”
Stern’s glare was glacial. “I didn’t put those clothes in my trunk.”
“Then we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Cohen said, “and you’ll be free to go.”
He opened the file folder Bandoni had placed on the table. “We’re recording this,” he said, pointing to the camera in the corner.
“I am familiar with the process, Detective,” Stern said.
“That because you’ve been arrested before?” Bandoni asked.
Stern arched a brow. “Did you not bother with your homework, Detective Bandoni? As DPC’s chief litigator, I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews.”
Cohen pulled his chair closer to the table. For the camera, he said, “Let’s get started. Detectives Cohen and Bandoni, interviewing Veronica Stern. Ms. Stern, please say the date. Then state and spell your full name and address and your date of birth.”
Stern complied. When she gave her street address, Mac and I exchanged glances. Wash Park. Where the Davenports lived.
Cohen went through a patter, recording for the camera that Stern was there of her own free will, that she wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol, and that she understood that she was not under arrest. Once through the formalities, he pulled the file folder toward him and picked up the pen.
“This must be a shock to you,” Cohen said.
“Do you think?” The laser edge in her voice could have etched steel.
“You seem more angry than concerned.”
“That is because I haven’t murdered any children, Detective. I haven’t even given one a nosebleed. This is clearly someone’s idea of a sick joke.”
“Who would want to play that kind of joke on you?”
She tucked a single loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My line of work places me against people who would prefer I not do my job. People looking for compensation from the railroad, whether they deserve it or not.”
“You mean people hit by your trains. Can you think of anyone who’s been particularly upset?”
She shook her head. “In instances where the railroad is at fault, we usually settle. When it’s not—which is the majority of cases—we still do our best to settle. But this is a litigious country. People often refuse, then become angry when they realize they would have been better off taking our initial offer. So I’ve been mentally reviewing my cases. No one comes immediately to mind.”
“You settle to avoid the publicity?”
“And the expense. But when the plaintiff refuses, we fight. And we usually win.”
“Up until six months ago, you were fighting on behalf of a different railroad. Is that true?”
“SFCO. Yes.”
“What made you switch to DPC?”
“They offered a better package.”
“Higher salary?”
“And better benefits.”
Bandoni cleared his throat. “Benefits like sleeping with the boss’s son?”
Stern rolled her eyes. “Really.”
“As a litigation attorney,” Cohen said, “your pay is among the highest in the country, even for attorneys as a whole.”
“Are you suggesting that’s a crime? The work I do is difficult. Millions can be riding on the cases I handle. I was happy to accept DPC’s offer.”
“Were you driven by financial worries?”
In the observation room, a phone trilled. “Vibrate!” someone shouted.
“—merely pay commensurate with my work,” Stern said.
“We will check your financials.”
“Please do.”
Cohen scribbled something in the notebook. “Let’s talk about your car. Is it accessible at work?”
“When I park on the street. Usually I park in the adjacent garage, which is gated.”
“But someone could walk in.”
“Of course.”
“What about this week?”
“I was in the garage yesterday. The street the day before.”
“And what about at home?”
“I keep my car locked in the garage at night. I never leave it outside.”
“What were you doing at Green Hills Park at four this morning?”
She blinked. “I wasn’t.”
“Bullshit,” Bandoni muttered.
She didn’t glance around. “I wasn’t at any park this morning. I wasn’t even out of bed then.”
“And last night?” Cohen asked. “Where were you last night?”
“I picked up my usual Chinese dinner at Shanghai’s right after work at six and then went home.”
Cohen made a note. “And you are not married, is that correct?”
“Divorced.”
“Did your husband cheat on you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That is none of your business.”
From his post against the wall, Bandoni said, “That’s a yes. I bet that hurt—beautiful woman like you.”
Her eyes glittered.
“Boyfriend?” Cohen asked.
“No.”
“Roommate?”
“I live alone.”
“Meaning no one can vouch for your whereabouts last night.”
“After I left the restaurant, no.”
“You make any phone calls, log on to the Internet, anything like that?”
“No.”
“So how did you spend the evening?”
“I enjoyed a glass of wine with my dinner, turned on some Bach fugues, then settled in the living room to read.”
“Soldier of Fortune?” said Bandoni. “I hear they got ads in there for people who want to make a hit.”